


we were dreamers (not so long ago)

by hedgewilde



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aromantic Character, Asexual Character, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Makes His Own Gifts, Christmas, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Natasha Gives Embarrassing Gifts, Queerplatonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 14:40:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2854496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hedgewilde/pseuds/hedgewilde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky relearns the reason for the season while Steve, Sam, and Natasha help him navigate through the memories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we were dreamers (not so long ago)

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write something festive with these four and thanks to headcanon discussions, cheerleading, and multiple beta readers this Christmas piece is finally finished. A heartfelt thanks goes out to [Ashlee](http://airafleeza.tumblr.com/), [Kami](http://msaether.tumblr.com/), [Zoie](http://polarisrogers.tumblr.com/), and [Reese](http://mostfamousestofhobbits.tumblr.com/) for their support with this endeavor. This can be read as a stand-alone piece but it does take place in the same timeline as ['the way we look like animals'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2349476).
> 
> Title from [_The Polar Express'_ "Believe."](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D2va8ddcY4E)

Once the snow began falling in DC a certain sense of expectancy fell over their shared apartment. Bucky felt the dryness of the air in his skin and hair. Felt the pressure of the air change and settle into the heavy weight of his arm. Felt that there had once been winters filled with wracking coughs in one-bedroom apartments with broken radiators. Winters filled with silence outside the snow whistling past his ears as he lay belly down in the snow, rifle cradled against his shoulder. He was shaken from his reverie (chin resting on his arms folded on the back of the couch, staring absently out the picture window at the busy street below) by weight settling near his hip. Sam leaned back, neck lolling so his head rested on the cushion by Bucky’s elbow.

“Snowing already, can you believe it?”

Bucky grunted. Sat back on his heels and stared at Sam from behind his forearm.

“It’s November. Why are there already Christmas decorations?”

“People get funny about the holidays anymore,” Sam said, resting a hand on Bucky’s head. “Christmas comes earlier every year.”

Bucky pressed into the fingers in his hair. “I remember Christmas. I think.”

Sam waited as Bucky’s eyes flickered, watching a woman in a bright red coat cross the street.

“I remember once in New York. Christmas Eve. 1941. Steve was rejected the first time.”

“On a date?”

“US Recruiting and Induction Center.”

He turned to Sam, wide-eyed and surprised by his own admission. Sam raised his eyebrows. Bucky swallowed and focused on the memories.

“A few Christmases during the war. Steve and I. Some of the,” he faltered, “Commandos? Commandos. Agent Carter. We tried to get Steve drunk on cheap whiskey one year. Agent Carter could hold her drink better than most of us. She said--”

Bucky flinched away from Sam. Stared out the window trying to make sense of the conflicting memories. Peggy was young and Steve was golden and smiling. Peggy was married and her eyes were melancholy. Peggy was frail and soft as dandelion seeds and Steve was still golden. Bucky’s fingers locked around Sam’s wrist. He heard Sam talking in a low voice. Felt a warm palm on his back.

“I want to do Christmas,” he managed. Sam’s hand paused. Resumed sweeping across his back.

“We can do Christmas. As the four of us?”

Bucky nodded.

“Want to see if Steve has a tree somewhere in this apartment?”

When Steve and Natasha returned four hours later from their undercover operation as security at a benefit dinner (Steve sporting a full beard (which Bucky loved to run his fingers through), Natasha wearing a dark wig and speaking through a Midwestern accent), Bucky was half asleep on the couch as Sam finished adjusting ornaments on a pre-lit artificial blue spruce. Bucky blinked drowsily at them as Natasha leaned against Sam’s shoulder and untangled a branch from the string of white lights. Steve sat on the floor in his nice tailored suit. Edged closer to where Bucky’s arm dangled off the couch.

“Looks like you two were busy while we were out,” Steve hummed, pressing a kiss to Bucky’s palm as his fingers danced against Steve’s jaw.

“We found some records,” Bucky yawned, “but couldn’t find a gramophone.”

“We can look for it tomorrow,” Steve said.

Bucky curled in on himself on the couch, head resting on Steve’s shoulder. More fingers in his hair. Bucky let himself slowly drift back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Sam and Steve insisted on going to find a food truck for lunch. Natasha tracked down the Basil Thyme’s Two truck at the dinner table while scratching her fingers across the back of Bucky’s neck. He tried to insist he was feeling well enough to walk through the city during moderate traffic (he made a point to track peak vehicular and pedestrian activity while home alone). If any of them suspected otherwise they failed to suggest staying home. Natasha gave him a soft-eyed look and asked if he was ready for food or needed a moment to get ready.

Forty minutes later Bucky ducked out of line at the truck. Staggered away from Steve’s reaching hands. Collapsed onto a bench near the curb. Within the press of people, a woman had brushed past him with her carton of pasta and the familiarity of her perfume brought to mind the face of a stone hearted surgeon who spoke in clipped, angry consonants. Blood rushed in his ears. He tugged the fur-trimmed hood of his coat around his neck. Tucked his elbows to his sides and curled into himself. Heard a child ask their father what was wrong with the man sitting by the mailbox.

“Яша?”

Bucky leaned against the solid weight of Natasha at his side. Tucked his head under her chin. Inhaled slowly. Held his breath. Exhaled slowly.

“Your food?”

“Sam has it,” she said, voice muffled through the hood. “Steve has your fusilli with pesto.”

“Meatballs?”

“And meatballs.”

Her hands gentle against his knuckles. Against the knit of his gloves. Bringing his hands to her face. Bucky rocked his forehead against hers, the dry warmth of her skin grounding him. Their noses brushed. His eyes opened at the sound of her quiet laughter. Bucky remembered this. Eskimo kisses. Butterfly kisses. Kissing. Natasha disliked kissing. He froze under her touch.

“Sorry.”

“This is different. This is nice,” Natasha laughed again. Rubbed her nose against his.

Bucky took a shuddering breath and sagged into Natasha. Her arms looped around his shoulders as the smell of basil, parmesan, and almonds reached him. Bucky looked up to find Sam (hands fisted in his pockets, smiling gently) and Steve (hands full with bags of takeout cartons, ears and nose pink) scuffing their boots against the sidewalk. Natasha pressed her lips to his forehead. Slapped an open palm on his knee.

“Let’s go home before the food goes cold.” 

 

* * *

 

Bucky dutifully avoided coffee and alcohol. He marveled at the sudden wealth of winter drinks. Decided peppermint hot chocolate was good. Steve’s pumpkin spice latte smelled strange and upset his stomach. Egg nog sounded terrible, looked terrible, and tasted terrible. He brushed his teeth furiously while Steve laughed over the face he apparently made. 

 

* * *

 

Sam answered the door with individual pieces of tape stuck to the fingers of his left hand. Waved Bucky inside. Brushed some of the snow from Bucky’s hair.

“One second,” he said while sidestepping off in the direction of his living room.

Bucky heard the distinct sounds of stiff, glossy paper crackling and fabric shifting before Sam called to him. He toed off his boots. Followed the hallway to find Sam conspicuously flipping the corner of a blanket over the couch. Rolls of wrapping paper and a bag of ribbon bows (ripped open poorly, bows spilling out onto the floor) lay scattered between finished and partially wrapped gifts.

“It’s December fifth.” Bucky scratched at his wrist. “Why are you wrapping presents?”

“Because I had some free time,” Sam responded, sitting down crosslegged. “Never hurts to have some of the work done ahead of time. No sense saving it all for Christmas Eve.”

“I don’t know what to get you all for Christmas.”

Sam looked taken aback by the abruptness of Bucky’s confession. Peeled the backing from a gold bow, waved Bucky over, and slapped it on his shin. Bucky cocked his head and sat down carefully to not crush the looped ribbon. They sat shoulder to shoulder as Sam wrote Natasha’s name on the festive label. Dropped the small box in Bucky’s lap.

“Don’t think so hard. What reminds you of us?”

Bucky traced his (flesh and bone) fingers over the looping spirals of shimmery gold on the matte red paper. Thought too hard. Tried to simplify his train of thought. Watched Sam fold a sweater and tuck it into a box. Sam taped the box shut. Laid it upside down on the paper and taped one end to the bottom of the box. Bucky admired the sharp folds Sam put in the paper. Attention to detail. Like his attention to detail while making dinner for them all. Bucky gasped. Sam froze with the tape dispenser held aloft.

“Food!” Bucky shouted. He whispered it again to himself. Slid Natasha’s box across the floor and crawled on hands and knees over to the outlet where Sam always charged his Stark Tech tablet. Laid down on his stomach and kicked his feet against the carpet.

“Well, I’m going to wrap your presents now,” Sam said over the sounds of the blanket slipping off the couch, “so no peeking.”

Steve arrived on Sam's doorstep hours later, phone in hand. Bucky rolled over onto his back. Held the tablet flat to his chest.

"I tried to call you." Steve loomed over him with flushed cheeks.

Bucky blinked up at him. "Oh."

Steve rolled his eyes, mouth tilting up in an exhausted smile. Moved to sit next to Bucky (who quickly tapped at the screen until he managed to compile the links into a message to himself). Bucky nearly dropped the tablet on his face when Steve wrapped a hand around his knee and dug his fingers in to make Bucky writhe and let out high, nervous laughter.

“No peeking,” he managed between gasps. 

 

* * *

 

It had been nearly a year since Bucky dragged himself to Tony’s doorstep for repairs to his arm and Tony seemed to think Bucky was fit enough to serve with the team on a mission. Three days later and Bucky was still digging sand from the plates of his wrist. Never more grateful to be out of the persistent humidity in Snowflake, Arizona (Clint had thought the coincidence was amusing), Bucky stretched out on the couch and curled his toes on the armrest. Felt his joints crackle. Steve handed him another sheaf of old newsprint to cut into strips.

Sam sat propped up against Natasha, taking popcorn from her hands and stringing a garland to wrap around the tree. Natasha turned up the volume on the television as Bing Crosby and Danny Kane sashayed in with their feather fans. Bucky chuckled and taped together a dozen rings of paper before Steve looked up from reading the comics instead of cutting them. He let out a soft chuckle as the song and dance finished and Bucky prodded him in the shoulder with his toes. Steve grabbed his ankle. Squeezed with his thumb in the arch of Bucky’s foot until Bucky cried mercy.

Natasha swatted Steve with the rolled up entertainment section. Told them to be quiet and enjoy the movie like the culturally ignorant geriatrics they were. Sam stood (brushing his hands on his jeans) and announced a bathroom break. They maintained a convincing level of conversation until they head the hallway door shut. Before Steve could stop them, Natasha dove elbows deep into the brown paper bag holding the popcorn.

“Catch!”

Bucky opened his mouth and lurched forward so the popcorn landed on his tongue. He turned a wicked grin toward Steve. Who was stone-faced and shaking his head. Bucky crunched through the popcorn in his mouth and grunted.

When Sam returned, humming music from the movie, he froze in the open doorway. Bucky froze. Natasha threw one last piece of popcorn at Steve who was surrounded by wadded up pieces of newspaper and a frightening amount of popcorn.

“Thank you for volunteering to make more corn, you two,” he sighed. “I was starting to worry we would run out before the garland was finished.”

As Bucky and Natasha dawdled on their way to the kitchen (“If Steve had just caught it all--”) he saw Sam collapse onto the couch and pull Steve in with a hand on the back of his neck. Their lips met in a smiling, closed mouth kiss. Bucky watched the way Steve’s neck flushed as he ducked his face into Sam’s shoulder.

 

* * *

 

Bucky walked past the rarely used office in their apartment just as Steve was sliding two wrapped packages into the closet. Steve shooed him away while Bucky forced himself to stop mentally calculating the surface area of the package, the probable weight, the sharpness of the folded creases in the paper, the glimmer of pearlescent paper. 

 

* * *

 

Sam was unusually quiet during their reconnaissance assignment (in Tannenbaum, Arkansas, of all places). During the flight back home. During debriefing. When Steve took Sam’s hand and invited him to make dinner with them that night Bucky paid closer attention to the play of muscles across Sam’s face. Across his shoulders. Bucky noticed how Sam’s smile failed to reach his eyes. But Sam agreed nonetheless.

Later that night, curled up on the couch and watching another Christmas movie (“It’s a classic. Santa Claus is taken to court.”), Bucky pushed his scalloped potatoes around his plate. Leaned over and stole a green bean from Sam. Wedged between them, Sam speared a piece of chicken and stared at it pensively.

“I got a card in the mail the other day.”

Steve paused the movie as Edmund Gwenn and Natalie Wood did animal impersonations together. They waited for Sam to put his fork down. To let his head drop back against the couch.

“From Riley’s family.”

Steve’s hand immediately went to the back of Sam’s head, tucking Sam into his shoulder. Bucky took Sam’s plate before it was disrupted onto the (recently cleaned because they were notoriously messy) carpet.

“When was ‘the other day?’” Steve asked, fingers sweeping across Sam’s hair.

Sam hesitated. Bucky could see the nervous beat of Sam’s pulse in his neck. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss right to the hinge of Sam’s jaw. Sam huffed a laugh through his nose.

“Right after the nanobot mission.”

“That was last week,” Bucky said slowly.

Sam’s hand came to rest on Bucky’s knee.

“What’ve you been doing since then?” Steve asked and Bucky felt the question linger heavy in the spaces between them all.

Sam breathed for a moment. A minute. He squeezed Bucky’s hand.

“Been going through old pictures. Old files. I found a letter Riley wrote me before our last mission.”

Bucky rubbed his thumb along Sam’s knuckles. He knew this was something Sam liked. He knew Steve often sat for hours while Sam dozed fitfully, soothing him to sleep with the repetitious pattern of his fingers over Sam’s hand. Sam made another quiet noise when Bucky stopped.

“Should we--” Steve cleared his throat. “Should we stop the movie? Is this--”

“No, we have to finish this one,” Sam insisted. “This is good. All of this. Talking about it.”

Bucky thought of how Sam constantly reminded them that their struggles were nothing to be ashamed of. Their trials and baggage and damage did not make them any less than who they were capable of being. Bucky thought of all of them with their trauma as physical luggage. Laughed to himself. Passed Sam’s plate back as Steve played the movie again. Steve’s hand drifted to Bucky’s shoulder (behind Sam’s back) and squeezed. 

 

* * *

 

Bucky woke to kisses being peppered across his face. Steve’s minty breath on his cheek. Steve’s soft mouth on his. Steve’s eyelashes brushing the bridge of his nose.

“Stevie,” he yawned. “It’s six o’clock in the morning. On a Sunday.”

“It snowed last night.” Steve’s eyes were bright.

“Wonderful.”

“Remember how we used to make snow angels?”

Bucky rolled to his side, propping his head on his left hand. Steve knocked his forehead against Bucky and kissed him again.

“That what’s got you riled up so early in the day? Snow angels?”

“But you remember?”

“Mrs Conway’s boys would watch for cars while we floundered in the street.”

Steve sighed (always most content in the earliest waking moments of the day). Nodded against Bucky’s forehead. “Keep going.”

“Your skinny arms barely strong enough to move the snow around. I always had to pull you up off your back and help brush away the marks from your feet. Let’s go.”

“Let’s go?” Steve asked.

Bucky dragged him off the bed with him and within twenty minutes they were bundled up, in the small lawn out front, and rolling in the snow like children. Before Bucky could push himself up to sitting, Steve was on his feet and holding out his hand.

“You’ll put a hole in your wing there, Buck.”

He grabbed Steve’s forearm and tugged. Flipped them away from their angels to land in a soft bank of powdery snow. Steve laughed through a whooping exhale. Shoved a handful of snow down the neck of Bucky’s parka. Bucky jerked away, cackling. Grabbed Steve around the ankles and dragged him so snow went up the back of Steve’s coat. Steve arched his back, wheezing with laughter, and flipped them over. Bucky kicked his legs (boots slipping on the now-packed snow) and Steve settled on his hips.

“I hate to think what would’ve happened if we made a snowman,” Bucky gasped. 

 

* * *

 

Steve and Sam were away for three days on a mission in Mistletoe, Kentucky when Bucky called Natasha to ask for her help. She sat on the couch with him watching an animated movie about children on a magical train going to see Santa Claus (Bucky was thankful for how she held his hand without asking questions when the train slid precariously across the ice-covered lake). They were cutting strips of construction paper and using hole punchers when the sound of keys in the door spurred them into action. Scraps and markers tucked away, Bucky kicked the box of scraps under the couch as Steve slouched into the front room. 

 

* * *

 

Christmas morning came quietly and peacefully. Bucky woke to Steve’s gentle snoring in his ear and Natasha sitting at the foot of the bed. She looked pleased with herself and crawled on her stomach to lie between them.

“What time is it?” Bucky croaked, hand slapping on the bedside table. Looking for his phone.

“Almost nine,” she whispered, tapping her fingertips against Steve’s chin. “We let you old timers sleep in today.”

“We?”

“Sam’s out in the living room setting up everything. He insisted on making French toast.”

Steve swatted Natasha’s hand away. Yawned loudly.

“We’re just waiting on you two,” she reminded him, throwing her legs over Bucky's hips and jumping to the floor. “Come out when you’re awake.”

As she sauntered through the door, Steve groaned and rubbed his knuckles into his eye sockets. Bucky stifled a yawn. Tapped his fingers against Steve’s chin.

“Sam’s going to use up all of our bread and eggs out of spite if we don’t go eat the breakfast he’s making for us.”

Steve rolled onto Bucky’s chest. Mouthed at his neck.

“Make him buy more.”

“Not very in the spirit of giving, is that?”

Bucky wrapped his arms around Steve’s waist and hauled him out of bed, both swaying on their feet. Steve attempted to untangle himself from the comforter and pull up his shorts at the same time. Bucky kissed his forehead. Ducked away to find The Green Sweater and tug it over Steve’s head. His hair stood up in tufts like downy feathers. Steve cleared his throat. Finally looked at Bucky. Smoothed down his bedhead.

“G’morning, Buck.”

“Morning, Stevie.”

Bucky grabbed his sweatpants and readjusted the drawstring as Steve draped himself over Bucky’s back. The smell of vanilla and toasting wheat bread was making its way through the apartment. Bucky felt his stomach growl. Taking Steve by the hand, he lead them down the hall. Froze at the entrance to the living room. Stacked around the base of their modest tree were boxes and bags beyond what Bucky expected. Envelopes bearing their names were tucked into the branches of the tree. Natasha was curled up in the armchair and waved them over.

“That better be the sounds of our soldiers out of bed,” Sam called from the kitchen.

Steve made his way toward the sounds of breakfast (scratching at his hip). Bucky perched on the armrest at Natasha’s side. She elbowed him away. Offered him a hair band from her wrist. Bucky tucked it between his teeth as he gathered his hair into a bun. Laughed through his nose at Sam berating Steve for drinking straight from the orange juice carton. Steve appeared bearing a platter of food with Sam close behind balancing four mugs, a half gallon of milk, and silverware. Bucky tucked his bangs behind his ear as he tied everything up securely. Natasha gave his bun a pat. Gave his thigh a pat. Shoved him off her chair.

“Go help the boys,” she told him while stretching. Rolled up the sleeves of a flannel shirt definitely picked out of Steve’s basket of clean laundry.

Bucky dragged an ottoman closer to the couch. Took the mugs and silverware from Sam. Preened a bit as Sam pressed his thumb to the cleft in Bucky’s chin. Steve tossed the velvet Santa hat onto Natasha’s lap (which she caught on her toes). She dug through the gifts under the tree and began divvying them out. Another movie was in progress on the television; a young boy gave a rapid-fire monologue on why he deserved a pellet gun with “this thing which tells time.” Natasha muttered to herself under the tree, shoving a particularly heavy box toward Steve’s usual seat.

Once breakfast had been set out (Bucky had eaten a slice of toast while Steve poured drinks for everyone) Natasha dropped the hat on Sam’s head and sat down on her heels to make up her plate. Bucky edged past her with a strawberry in his teeth and stared at the couch. Bit through the fruit. Let the stem fall to his plate. Turned to the others, chest suddenly tight and hot.

“Have a seat, we’ll be right there,” Sam said.

Steve glanced at him with a warm smile. Did a doubletake. “You alright?”

Bucky shifted on his feet and felt his face crumple. He wanted to cry. Momentarily confused as to why a response to sadness would be triggered at that moment when everything was so warm and comfortable.

“Bucky?”

He switched hands holding his plate. Shook out his left hand, breathing shallowly. Looked back at the presents. An unprecedented number of boxes, a stocking stuffed with candy, and a handful of cards stacked on and around his end of the couch.

“This is all for me?”

His voice was small but the three heard him.

“Yeah, of course it is,” Sam reassured him. “They all have your name on them. Some of the others even brought things by earlier this month because the knew they’d be busy today.”

Steve clapped a hand on Bucky’s calf. Rubbed his palm across the firm muscle. Grounded Bucky in the living room. Natasha discreetly raised her eyebrow at him. Gave him a reassuring nod. Bucky leaned into Steve’s touch and ate more French toast with his right hand, syrup sticking together between his knuckles. Steve levered himself to his feet and led Bucky back to the couch.

Things dissolved into a flurry of paper and cheering. Bucky read all of his cards first, sucking the maple syrup from his fingers before opening the envelopes. Jane and Darcy sent them all portrait collages of the two of them with Thor, making faces while wearing festive hats and antlers. Bruce sent mail from Cambodia. Clint sent mail from Venezuela. Tony and Pepper sent mail and invitations to a New Years party from Malibu.

Natasha instructed them to open their gifts from her first. Calendars with firefighters and baby animals. Steve blushed to his ears while Sam choked on his orange juice before belly-laughing. Steve leaned across the gifts between them on the couch to stick his bow right on Bucky’s chest. And the next bow. And the next bow. By the end of all of their presents (movies and a pizza stone from Sam, ceramic tableware sets and multivitamins for senior citizens from Natasha, framed photos from Steve), Bucky was covered with ribbon bows and Natasha had taken several pictures.

Bucky crunched through another (clove) Necco wafer from the roll Steve had slipped into his stocking. Sam flipped through the book on Motown history Steve had given him. Natasha tucked her hair into the knit hat Steve had given her. Steve calmly drank his orange juice.

“My turn,” Bucky announced and dropped to the floor. Swept his arm under the couch until he found the box.

Steve made an interested noise. Set down his mug. “Need help?”

Bucky passed him his two gifts (one solid and heavy, one light and flexible). Gave Steve’s head a pat. Moved away to give Sam and Natasha their respective gifts. Natasha shook her heavy gift. Sam held his flexible gift to the light.

“You two are awful,” Steve laughed, failing to hide the way he shifted the heavy gift between his hands, weighing it thoughtfully.

Bucky curled up in his corner of the couch, legs crossed, knees splayed. “Go on.”

Natasha and Sam jumped at the permission, shredding through the paper while Steve carefully unstuck the bow atop the heavy gift. Held it out to Bucky who took it and stuck it to Steve’s chest. Sam crowed when he finally unwrapped the heavy jar. Held it out to Natasha who shook hers at him.

Mason jars filled with flour, sugar, oats, baking soda, baking powder, and salt. Steve’s had butterscotch chips. Natasha got walnuts. Sam got chocolate chips. Bucky toyed with a loose string on the wrist of his sleep shirt. Waited.

Steve laughed quietly. “So this is what you were up to at three in the morning yesterday.”

“This is what you meant by ‘food’ when you were hiding out at my place.” Sam turned the jar over in his hands. “This is great, Buck.”

“We should make some tonight.” Natasha started unwrapping the smaller gift.

Steve and Sam set down their jars and followed suit. Bucky felt his heart flutter and his throat tighten. He was nervous. Anticipating. He hid his face in his (now empty) mug.

“‘One gun cleaning.’ ‘One knife sharpening.’ Oh, Яша.”

“These are great!”

“Buck.”

He peeked at Steve from behind his hair, slipping out of the hair tie and into his eyes. Steve leaned forward. Cupped Bucky’s jaw in his hand. Kissed him firmly. The little booklet fell from Steve’s hand onto the cushion and Steve started giggling against Bucky’s mouth. Bucky felt hands on his shoulders. Fingers against his. Smelled Natasha’s perfume as she leaned over him to pick up the booklet.

“‘Good for one thousand kisses.’ Steve, don’t use this one up all at once,” she laughed.

Steve kissed Bucky again. Again.

“Let’s go do something before the old timers call it a night,” Sam called from his chair. Slouched down out of the seat, legs sprawling on the carpet.

“Let’s go build an igloo.”

“Nat, I doubt there’s enough snow out front.”

She looped her arms around Bucky’s waist and his stomach lurched for a moment. Her hands were soft. Non-threatening. Unarmed. His hands were on Steve’s ankles. Non-threatening. Unarmed. There was no fight. They were sitting together on Christmas morning. He drew in a shaking breath and exhaled against Steve’s cheek.

“Bucky, want me to grab your boots?” Sam asked, already looping his scarf around his neck. Zipping up his coat.

Natasha slipped away to the front hall. Bucky heard her tugging on her boots (zippers and buckles jingling). He rocked his forehead against Steve’s. Grimaced at his own orange juice breath. Steve kissed him again, clearly bent on using up his thousand kisses before the end of the week.

“Let’s go,” Bucky agreed.

“Let’s go?” Steve’s smile was wide and Bucky blushed under the attention.

As he dressed to go out into the snow (fur-trimmed hood pulled tight against his cheeks), Bucky watched the three tumble down the porch like puppies. Mittened hands shoved in his pockets, he breathed in the stillness. Content. His fingers went to his lips, still warm from Steve’s mouth. Natasha called to him, lobbing a snowball between her hands, demanding he join her team for a snow battle. Rolling his eyes, he scooped snow from the wide railing along the steps and packed a snowball in his hands as he crossed the yard.

**Author's Note:**

> Films referenced:
> 
>  
> 
> _White Christmas (1954), Miracle on 34th Street (1947), The Polar Express (2004), A Christmas Story (1983)_
> 
>  
> 
> Basil Thyme and Thyme's Two are genuine, active food trucks in the DC area: [Basil Thyme](http://www.basilthyme.com/menu.php) and [Basil Thyme's Two](http://www.basilthyme.com/menubt2.php)


End file.
